the woman; a sonnet

At five she woke up

From her husband arm and snoring songful alarm

Silhouetted by the same lingerie

The ages one, the long and weary

The one she bought by her own money

Look at her neck, look at her wrist

Where gone all her jewelries

Harmony and aloud

At the kindergarten

Where she taught the kids a thing or two

For her fifty, she was meant to not be greedy

This is a violence of life

Keep giving; you must survive

Melancholic

She wears the face of a strong mother

Rich and not poor

For the entire price she bears to pay

She must be wealthy to say;

This life isn’t longer about me but the sons

At five I woke up

From my husband arm and snoring songful alarm

Unfamiliar, unpopular

That my husband pays for my lingerie

Also my neck and my wrist

Are there a lavaliere and an ornament

But what are these, I thought of the woman

Of all her sacrifices

And her endless struggle

For the things I’ve forgot

And for the things she got

She is just the Mademoiselle

Of an unhappy marriage

I must not yet understand,

But she could be true

That life isn’t longer about me but the sons.

a.y.